Brooklyn Solitary

On clear sunny Flatbush afternoons, my neighbor appears unassumingly on her front porch carrying two items, which seem to be all one ever needs: a lawn chair and a book. Heavyset with short frizzy bleach blonde hair, she fills the lawn chair completely, which is always strategically placed in the left corner of the porch facing the street, allowing others in the walk-up to come and go as they please, while carving out her very own piece of heaven. Her apparent loneliness is comforting to mine.

On a slight diagonal, my gaze stretches through the broken mesh of my bedroom window across Bedford Avenue to contemplate this familiar stranger. I wonder if she lives alone and whether she has family that checks in on her every now and then. I wonder if she loses herself in steamy romances or science fiction. Sometimes she stops reading and looks up from her book out into the street for long stretches of time and I wonder if she's seen me. If ever she does, I hope my observation is not mistaken for judgement or pity. On days when woes outweigh wonder, I think of going over to ask for an ear to lay down my burdens and exchange thoughts about world affairs. Instead, I sit in my chair and enjoy the unspoken connection of loners.